


Whatever Keeps Us Alive

by Dira Sudis (dsudis)



Series: Love in the Time of Pyres [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Dystopia, Elves, Hugs, Hurt/Comfort, Injustice, M/M, Persecution, Police Brutality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2019-07-15
Packaged: 2020-06-28 11:06:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19811011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dsudis/pseuds/Dira%20Sudis
Summary: Éibhear and Elihal are each doing what they need to to get along during the witch hunters' persecution of elves--but sometimes what you need is a friend.





	Whatever Keeps Us Alive

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the "dystopia" square on my Hurt/Comfort Bingo card, because while the world of The Witcher is mostly dystopian most of the time, it's especially so for elves in Novigrad post-"Now or Never," and I got to thinking about how two of my favorite NPCs were coping with that. 
> 
> If you're not familiar with the game, this concerns a time in the game when elf & dwarf residents of the city are coping with intense persecution--including more or less arbitrary executions--by the de facto police in the city, hence the Police Brutality tag. Neither character is actually physically harmed in this story but they have a frightening brush with what could happen.
> 
> Title is from Matthew Good Band's "Sort of a Protest Song".

For a time after the witcher, Geralt, helped him return to his swordsmithing work, Éibhear kept his head down over his forge and thought of nothing else. He was glad to spend his days baking in the heat of the forge again; he was glad to be doing the work that had always meant the most to him. He was glad not to constantly smell of dumplings, if it came to that.

The heat of his forge was rivaled, of course, by the heat from the shrine of the Eternal Fire, which occupied the center of the square in front of his shop. But that was nothing new, or special. There were shrines like it in nearly every square in Novigrad--and every shrine had its complement of guards. 

They used to stop and eat his dumplings sometimes, and he knew well enough to give them discounts, or free meals from time to time. Now that he was making swords... well, of course he did a bit of sharpening and oiling for free, and accepted the small coins they tossed him with quiet, humble thanks. That was good business practice. It was good _life_ practice. He was an elf in a human city, in a profession that belonged to dwarves. Éibhear knew there were always going to be bargains he had to make, even if he no longer had to negotiate with Cleaver and his men.

Pretty soon there were witch hunters among the guards, as if they were interchangeable. Éibhear thought of the bits of magery he'd seen Geralt do, the common bits of hedge magic he'd seen a hundred others do, and he kept his mouth shut. He oiled and sharpened blades that were held to mages' and sorceresses' throats because at least this way they weren't held to his. 

He thought now and then, hopelessly, of leaving Novigrad, but it wasn't as if there was anywhere safer for an elf to go. Radovid's Redania? Lawless Velen? Occupied Temeria? And that was if he could even get there, when his livelihood relied on a forge that weighed more than the horses he couldn't afford to buy to move it, and a shopful of tools and materials, hundreds of pounds of unworked metals and weapons. Or should he go penniless, abandon everything and become a dumpling-cook again, for howsoever long he could survive, alone on the road or in the wilderness? 

No. He would stay, and make these little compromises, and hope things didn't get worse.

And then, as he should have known they would, things got worse. One morning he woke up and could _feel_ a new edginess in the city; the guards around the shrine were doubled in number, and their faces were hard. Éibhear kept his eyes turned down as he stoked the fire, asked no questions as he sharpened blade after blade, free of charge.

There were no stray coins tossed his way today, no awkward, condescending banter, no humorous requests for dumplings. Tension coiled up his spine and down his arms, worse and worse as the day went on and he caught the edges of whispers here and there, and put the pieces together without ever asking or speaking to anyone. 

The mages had all fled Novigrad, and they'd had help. Help from someone who'd killed dozens of witch hunters in the process of getting the mages to safety. Someone who'd used a superior sword, and surely an enchanted one, to kill so many so quickly.

It could have been anyone; logically it probably must have been several people, hired or coerced by the mages. But Éibhear thought of the peerless swords he'd made for Geralt, and the runes he'd set into them. He remembered the power that flowed from Geralt's hands, and gritted his teeth on what he knew. His face was hot from the fire of the forge, nothing else. No one could see the things he knew, or suspected. No one asked him anything; he was just the friendly elf who made the best swords in the city and did little favors for the guards and witch hunters.

He was only doing what he had to do to survive, just like anyone else. 

And then the witch hunters, deprived of witches to hunt, started hunting other game: dwarves and halflings and elves. They always declared their quarry guilty of some crime or another before the pyres were lit, but it was perfectly clear that the first crime was to be what they were, in a city full of angry dh'oine.

No one hunted Éibhear, of course. Éibhear was a good one, kept to himself, didn't frequent the elf-friendly establishments he'd seen raided since the mages disappeared. He didn't draw their notice, didn't remind them of what he was. Éibhear sharpened their swords--swords that they held to elves' throats. Swords that drove dwarves to pyres.

He told himself there was nothing else he could do. He was just getting along, like anyone would. There was still nowhere else to go. Still, he became ever more conscious of each elf he passed in the city, or who passed his shop--which few enough did, since it also meant passing the shrine and its guards. 

There were some, though. There were always elves who would do precisely what they knew men didn't like. Éibhear rarely met their eyes when they crossed the square, but he watched and listened and tried not to feel he was betraying them just by being alive, and momentarily safe. He knew they must disdain him, an elf with so little pride as to lower himself the way he did, but they had always disdained him for working with iron and silver, too. For doing a dwarf's work, for his commerce with dh'oine. 

He admired their courage, their pride, even if he wished more of them would be careful, instead. The Aen Seidhe were already few enough, and Éibhear already felt more alone than he could bear. He didn't like to think of a day when he might walk through Novigrad, or spend an entire day minding his shop, and not see another of his own kind. Every time he glimpsed one of them, he knew that at least that day hadn't come yet. He wasn't the last one left.

There was one elf who especially caught his eye, partly because it took him three times seeing them pass before Éibhear realized they were all the same person. The first time he saw her she had been clad in a sumptuous dress of--well, some shiny and intricately decorated stuff that he didn't know the proper words for, with her mass of black hair arranged in elaborate curls and braids and held in place with glittering pins and combs. The tips of her ears were covered, and her makeup made her features look more human, but Éibhear could still tell an elf when she passed two yards away from him.

And then a few days later an elf walked past, strikingly beautiful under his dirty face and rough clothes, hair hidden under a knit cap, and Éibhear thought he looked oddly familiar. Another day after that an elf in loose flowing trousers and a long airy tunic that looked almost Ofieri in style passed him again, wearing just a subtle touch of kohl around the eyes. Lovely rich brown eyes that looked very, very familiar, and black hair that curled at the back of the neck. 

This time Éibhear heard someone call the elf by name-- _Elihal, the shipment came in, I've got the shot silk at last!_ \--and somehow that was enough to make him connect this elf with the two others he'd seen. All one beauty in different guises, and also a master tailor whose name he had seen before on advertisements around the city. _Elihal_.

Éibhear watched for them after that, always curious to see what version of Elihal might appear, making his or her or their way down to the warehouses near the docks to pick up newly imported materials, or back with their finds to their shop outside the city gates. It was nearly enough to make Éibhear wish he still made dumplings; that would be an easy thing to offer to a passing elf. A beautiful tailor wouldn't need a sword sharpened, after all. Scissors, perhaps...?

But in truth even if Éibhear could have offered dumplings, he wouldn't have had anything else to offer to such a fearless and flawless creature as Elihal. He wouldn't have had the courage to offer even that, likely. Elihal probably didn't eat anything so pedestrian, so _dh'oine_. Elihal had never given him a second glance. 

Watching Elihal was like watching the birds who sometimes alighted on the roof of the shrine, or the bats who roosted there, basking in its warmth. Like watching the sun set over the harbor in those weeks when he could look straight down the street to see it. Elihal was just another lovely bit of life passing him by--nothing he could touch.

Until the night when Éibhear was in the process of banking his fire, gathering the display weapons onto their racks, and heard the gruff voices of the guards at the shrine raised in a way that made the hair stand up on the back of his neck.

He looked across the square and saw a woman--an elf-- _Elihal_ in a gauzy blue dress with sparkling clips in her curly black hair--surrounded by four men in armor, all of them barking questions at her. Where was she going? Who was she meeting? What was she doing around here at night?

How much did she cost?

Éibhear knew in an instant that an elf like Elihal wouldn't appease them, wouldn't cower or beg the way they wanted--and then the swords would come out, and shackles would be snapped on those lovely, slim wrists, and if they discovered that what was under that pretty dress wasn't quite what they expected, everything would only get uglier. It wasn't far from here to the pyres, and the blackened bodies lining the bridges into the city--bridges Elihal must cross every time she came past his shop and down to the harbor. 

She knew the danger she was in; she had dropped her chin, wrapped her arms around herself, and if she was answering at all Éibhear couldn't hear her.

He didn't think. He knew what he had to do, what perhaps only he _could_ do, and surely what no one else could or would do quickly enough to matter. He dropped the sword in his hand with a deliberate clatter on the forge and called out as he stepped away from it, "Elihal, my dear, there you are! I was getting worried. Good sirs, is there some trouble?"

* * *

Elihal's friends were forever telling him how reckless he was, to keep on being himself at a time like this, in a place like Novigrad. He always told them he was more careful than they thought he was, that he had ways of handling tricky situations, that he had no intention of dying even while he also had no intention of being anyone other than his ever-changing self. 

The benefit of being very soon to be dead, he supposed, was that none of them would be able to say they told him so. It wasn't much comfort just now, surrounded by too many men in too many varying moods to charm or bargain his way past. All the care he took, all his cleverness, hadn't saved him from this, and now whatever little remained of his life looked likely to be very, very unpleasant. 

He found himself trying to guess whether he'd rather goad them into getting it over with or wait for the pyre-- _the pyre, the pyre, if only he had time he had to have a chance_ \--and then he heard a shockingly loud clatter of metal and froze. More guards? Witch hunters? 

Instead, he heard the last thing he expected: an elf's voice calling out, strong and steady and coming closer as he spoke, saying his name. 

"Elihal, my dear, there you are! I was getting worried." Elihal turned his head the tiniest fraction and recognized the blacksmith whose shop was on the other side of this square. Elihal had never spoken to him, and had no idea how the smith knew his name, but then he would happily have answered to Crippled Kate or Lady var Attre or any name at all that that voice chose to lay upon him. 

"Good sirs," the smith went on, and now the guards were turning to look, opening up the faintest hint of breathing room between Elihal and the wall of their heavy armor. The smith faced them all calmly, in no more armor than a leather apron over a sleeveless jerkin, as if he had nothing to fear from them at all. No human would notice the faint tremor that ran through his ears, evidence of some high emotion. "Is there some trouble? I hope my friend didn't run into any ruffians on her way to meet me--the dumplings would hardly be worth the trip then."

 _Dumplings?_ But there had used to be a dumpling shop where the smithy stood; Elihal remembered the rich smells that rolled out of it, the tables always crowded with people eating. Was this broad-shouldered smith the same elf who had run that shop, then? 

"Hattori," the most senior of the guardsmen said, in grudging acknowledgment. "Didn't realize she was with you. Oughtn't to be out alone so late, and dressed so--" the guardsman's eyes raked over Elihal's bare arms and décolletage, "inadequately for the weather."

"Ah, well," Master Hattori said, reaching out an arm that, somehow, made a guard edge back out of his way as he reached for Elihal. "I imagine she was anticipating the heat in the kitchen; between the forge and the stove it can be quite sweltering, you know. Come, my dear, I'm nearly finished for the night and then you'll find out just what you've been missing in the area of Redanian dumplings."

His hand hovered over the bare skin between Elihal's shoulder blades, and Elihal spared only the most fleeting of thoughts to wonder what this rescue was going to cost. Any port in a storm, and he'd rather cope with whatever a single Aen Seidhe wanted from him than spend another second at the mercy of four dh'oine and whatever comrades they chose to call for. 

Elihal stepped in under Master Hattori's arm, pressing close to his side, and Hattori curled the arm around protectively. Hattori's skin was very warm against his. "If you'll excuse us, gentlemen. Captain, I've only to do one more acid bath on your new blade; it should be ready by the start of your watch tomorrow. I think you'll be quite pleased with it."

"Sure I will be," the senior man muttered gruffly. "You always do good work, Hattori. Well. Good evening to you, then. Carry on, lads."

The other guards dispersed, clanking back to their posts around the shrine, and Elihal let himself be steered all the long way across the square--a distance of perhaps twenty yards that might as well have been twenty leagues. 

Hattori hadn't been mumming about the heat; it was like stepping suddenly from a chill spring night into midsummer noon, when they reached his forge. He guided Elihal past, to the open doorway of the shop that the forge stood in front of. 

"Go on in," he said in an undertone--not whispering, but surely inaudible to anyone standing outside the curve of his arm. "Borrow any clothes you might need--the window in the upstairs room lets out on a tree in the next courtyard; or if you'd like to stay, you are welcome under my roof as long as you should wish its shelter."

Hattori spoke in the common tongue, but the words had the echo of a much older expression: a vow of hospitality. He undertook to feed and clothe and protect Elihal, by the sacred customs of guest-rights. He promised, by those words, to ask nothing in return.

Elihal nodded jerkily and passed in through the open door to the dim room beyond. It was cooler than by the forge, but there was a stove, its fire only banked, lighting the room with a faint reddish glow. Elihal took a few steps toward it, thinking vaguely to light a spill and find whatever candles or torches Hattori had about, and then he heard the clattering of metal and tools out at the forge. 

He was aware, suddenly, that Hattori was staying in sight of the guards--staying between them and Elihal, making sure they didn't intend further harm, giving Elihal time to make the escape he'd suggested. Spending whatever goodwill he'd earned from those armed men who had him under their eye all day, every day, to protect someone who hadn't even known his name. 

Elihal's knees went weak all at once as the reaction struck. Out of nowhere, because of nothing, the whim of some dh'oine in shiny armor, he'd nearly died tonight. He'd nearly disappeared into the clutches of the witch hunters, nearly been marched to a pyre, nearly suffered unspeakable violations along the way--and then hadn't, because--because--

Elihal tried to breathe quietly, tried to steady himself. He was dimly surprised to realize that he was steadying himself against the floor; he was on his hands and knees. He would be making a mess of the front of his dress, and the delicate fabric could be so easily torn. He ought to--to--

He had to take one hand off the floor and press it to his mouth to muffle a cry. He'd almost--they could have--if--

From a long way off and yet very near, he heard an already-familiar voice say, "Oh, my dearest. I'm so sorry." 

An arm curved loosely around him--warm and sturdy-- _Hattori_ \--and Elihal turned into the tentative touch, clutching at the smith's shirt as the trembling took hold. Hattori's other arm closed around him, and then there was another motion as he was drawn against Hattori's chest, into his lap, entirely surrounded by the smell of fire and metal and the strength of his rescuer. 

"I--I--" Elihal stuttered, wanting somehow to protest, to explain, and unable to get any words out. He wasn't careless; he usually managed to talk his way past guards who took any notice of him; he had been trying to track down an important shipment and lost track of the time; he wasn't crying.

He was crying, a little, and shaking like a leaf in a storm, but Hattori only held him, steady as steel and patient as stone. One rough hand moved gently up and down the line of Elihal's spine now and then, and that low, firm voice murmured, "It's all right. I know. Take your time." 

Slowly, slowly, Elihal caught his breath and began to feel calmer, and a trifle embarrassed, and aware of how good it felt to be held. He couldn't remember his last friendly liaison--the current unpleasantness had made the elven social scene rather a wasteland, and Elihal was less than ever interested in dh'oine--and he hadn't realized how much he'd missed just being touched.

It occurred to him simultaneously that he wouldn't mind rather a lot more than touching, if Hattori was interested, and that the sort of man who would sit and hold him so patiently while he cried was not the sort to ask for anything at all. Not without a great deal of encouragement, anyway, and Elihal wasn't sure he had the wherewithal to stand up, let alone carry out a seduction. 

"Here," Hattori murmured, taking one arm from around Elihal and leaning over to grab something. Elihal picked his head up and discovered that Hattori was offering him a folded towel of white and blue striped linen, slightly crumpled and soft with years of use. Good quality fabric, and the dye had faded in a rather pleasing way, Elihal couldn't help thinking, even as he took the cloth and began to dab at his face. His makeup would be a wreck.

"I'm sorry," Elihal said. "I'll--I'll get the stains out, I--"

"I'm a blacksmith," Hattori put in gently. "I know plenty about getting the stains out and have learned to live with the ones I can't, I promise you."

"Oh," Elihal said, "Of course, I--I should--"

"It's no trouble." Hattori's hand ran up and down Elihal's spine again, and Elihal's eyes closed almost involuntarily as he worked at not leaning into the touch. "I'm Éibhear Hattori, by the way. Did I have your name right? Elihal? I heard someone call you that once."

Elihal nodded. _Éibhear_. He liked the sound of that; he liked having a name to call his new friend that wasn't what those dh'oine outside called him. 

"Took me a while to realize who you were," Éibhear said quietly. "You look so different, one day to the next, but always so beautiful. Got to looking forward to seeing you, trying to guess who you'd be, what you'd wear next--pretty dress or dockworker's togs or something I didn't even know the word for."

Elihal had to open his eyes at that, and sit back enough to actually meet Éibhear's eyes properly. They were pale blue, and surrounded by smile lines, and watching him with the gentleness Elihal mostly saw people turn on small children and fuzzy pets. Not him, especially not when they knew that Elihal was--mostly, approximately--a him, under the dress and makeup and jewelry. 

Elihal opened his mouth and closed it, still feeling shaky and off-balance and still, he realized, sitting on Éibhear's lap on the floor of his front room. "You... used to make dumplings?"

Elihal winced as soon as the words came out, but Éibhear grinned. "I did promise you a meal, didn't I? Have you ever had Redanian dumplings?"

"I--I wouldn't put you to any trouble," Elihal said faintly, though in truth he'd been stuck running from ship to warehouse to dockmaster's office and back since around noon, and between that and his body gradually realizing that it was alive and recovering from that wretched shock of terror, he would happily have eaten Éibhear's leather apron.

Éibhear shook his head. "Smithing is hungry work, and I've got to eat too. No trouble to make extra, and I'm not letting an Aen Seidhe go hungry under my roof."

Hospitality, of course. Éibhear had promised, hadn't he? He seemed like the sort of serious man who would never dream of shirking on such a vow.

"Oh," Elihal said. "Just... any Aen Seidhe?"

Éibhear's hand ran slowly up and down Elihal's back again, letting Elihal feel every callus scraping gently against his bare skin. "Any Aen Seidhe," Éibhear said solemnly. "But if it weren't for the circumstances I'd say I was particularly glad that it was you."

"My dear?" Elihal tacked on, recalling what Éibhear had said--and not only in front of the guards.

Éibhear, charmingly, went a bit pink at the tips of his ears, and they gave a betraying little twitch. "As you like," he said, and stood up under Elihal, carrying him up to his feet as though he were a bit of thistledown. 

"And," Elihal set one hand gracefully on Éibhear's arm, "if I wished to stay for more than dumplings?"

Éibhear's mouth twitched, and his ears got a little more pink, but he managed a reasonable attempt at solemnity as he said, "I did promise you the shelter of my home for as long as you required it, my dear Elihal. It would surely be safer to wait until morning, after the watch at the shrine has changed. I could walk you home."

"Mm," Elihal said, taking a deep, steadying breath. "Well. Only if you don't start any nonsense about letting me have your bed and sleeping down here by the hearth. I--" His voice wobbled, not quite letting him carry it off as a joke. "I don't think I'd like to be alone tonight."

Éibhear's expression turned entirely serious, and his arms went fully around Elihal, drawing him gently into a hug. Elihal closed his eyes and let himself be held as Éibhear murmured into his hair, "You don't have to be alone. Not as long as I'm here."

Elihal nodded against his chest and held on. That had sounded like a promise as well, and Éibhear seemed like the kind who kept his promises.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Whatever Keeps Us Alive](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20984843) by [miri_tiazan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/miri_tiazan/pseuds/miri_tiazan)




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